Think of the Capacitance, Reconnection, and No More Funny (for now)

I am way too neurotic to be funny. At least for now. Rage is too close to my funny bone, or maybe I just need to drink more and relax. It would be terrific if I was compartmentalized and organized enough to be funny on a whim, but unlike athletes and super brains my insides are all mashed up. It would be a lot like a professional football player who couldn't divide on the field violence and competitiveness from his private life. And then again, that's not really a good example because that happens all the time.

More like a race car driver who, sitting at a lunch table, grabs his plate of food, dumps all the food on the floor, and proceeds to use the plate like a steering wheel as he pilots his five hundred horse power table to victory lane while making car noises and leaning aggressively into the g forces of every nonexistent turn to keep his eye line level with the candy striped rumble strips. So in trying to be funny I stray hard into anger and then can't really get back out of it until I talk about it directly. So let's give it a rest for a little while till I can find the kid again and day dream in the grass and look at the stars without feeling loss.

I do want them dead and to watch them picked over by sand flies, but I've got decades to wait for that release and until then attempting escape by any means is setting myself up for thousands of crest falls. I spent a lot of time, hours, whilst pissing the nights away at a job that is barely wondering what I could do, how long it will take, before I can fully move on from them and the fallout of their actions and I think the answer is never, but once they're gone it'll at least be an exercise in dividing the distance to balance in half until it is, for practical purposes and functions, zero. I can live with that. I just have to not explode into embers of rageous delirium before then.

There's been some safe connection. With people again. Which has been pleasant. A first contact on hailing frequencies. It wasn't easy. I'm still, more or less, in the same orbit and unable to land yet, but am prepared to do so at the earliest convenience. Things just haven't been particularly funny of late. Or maybe they have. When I think about my job I think of how I have to talk myself up to it, talk myself into it, and talk myself safely out of it when my shift is over. It struck me as what some people porn probably have to do before the big scene involving a series of serial and parallel acts degrading enough to make them unconscionable to most human beings if they themselves had to be on the set to see the uncropped and unflattering angles or participate in any capacity. "Come on, you can do this. Just two more hours and it's over."

The connection itself has been fantastic. To be spoken to as a person. A fantastic experience. Addressed as not a liability or wildcard or moron or ass or subordinate or fractured or toxified, but just as another person. It's a good feeling. To be treated without strings. Granted it takes a lot of effort to rejoin that sort of treatment, to flow back the channel and engage on the common field line. It's hard. People take that for granted. Of course there are ten paths and channels extending and entering throughput throughout the exchange, but to choose to engage is worth the effort. So if I ever break out into sweats while I'm talking to you, you now know why. Practice makes more practice.

The poetry has been slacking, but like I said before, I'm only two hands, one pair of eyes, and one mouth to handle my production cue and my hands have been busy at Bits for Flames recently trying to make sense of old rough drafts and fix continuities and cut into the cores of what was trying to be said and expressed and constructed. If I had to call my writing style anything I would call it some kind of impressionism and, while tickling my brain's predilection for flights of romantic picturesque fancy and curly serifed constructions, it doesn't readily lend itself to conflation and linearity. Editing. Frustrating. I spent two hours trying to press reason out of thematic cross signaling before shoving it out there anyway because sometimes I have to shove off of something for a while before I can come back and look at it and see what's not connecting. Maybe that's why I shove off of myself sometimes, but always come back to try and fix me later. I'm 9 today.

I think I'm going to plot out my birthdays through the year to my projected death at 70 in a freak race car driving accident.

I went to a job fair where a woman was telling me that I could be published without having read a single word I'd written or even glancing at my "child born in the heart of blighted Africa" thin resume. She made the comment after I told her I loved writing when she told me that the seminary she represented recently added a one unit course on publishing. I'm pretty sure she was mainly looking to add to her auto mailer sign up sheet. I didn't sign up. She kept telling me how great my personality was. I kept wanting to tell her I was mostly just happy to be in a place where people were happy to see me just because I was there, but I didn't. It was a fun conversation nonetheless. Beats out talking to myself in my kitchen about what the smell coming out of the kitchen sink u trap might have been.

I'm tired and hungry. Resisting the solid state. Meals have slipped again. I had them nice and spread out over 16 hours at reasonable intervals a month ago. They're now back to a huddled mass of desperate consumption over four hours. Whatever I thought I did to fix that has unfixed itself. The unfucked has refucked and I have to power up and use my guts and grit to push it apart again and once more become awesome, because let's face it, only you can make you awesome.

I've accomplished no further work on the paper robot, but it is still on my table alongside my drawing pad that has NOT gathered dust... ...yet and my notebook. I have pages and pages and pages of notes to go through. It's frustrating. My hobby is my work, but my work doesn't let me eat so I have to do fake work to get food tokens so I don't die and then when I come home to do my real work I am too exhausted to engage it fully. It's this odd lockup. Hobbies are supposed to leave you rejuvenated and expanded and more whole as a person and my hobby is awesomely fulfilling and makes me so post coitus contented that I don't want to do anything else, but it is also massively exhausting and time and energy consuming that I can't do it and then run off to fake work to get my damn food and rent tokens, which is why I need to outright buy property. At least that way the amount of money I would be required to earn to stay alive would be drastically reduced. Probably my number one reason to get back into school some day, but buying property will probably be cheaper in the long run. Which is why it is reason number one after the two hundred reasons why it will probably and in all honesty, with the kind of person wired the way that I am, should not happen. Stupid genes.

So here I am. Pinging you and pinging me. Still alive and happily so. The value of life is not the journey. I hope everyone who says things like that gets stabbed in the eye socket. I don't understand how anyone can go through life without creating something and then pursuing further creation. More than anything else that is who I am. Generator. Taking in raw material and constructing. There was something else on the tip of the ax pick of my brain. But I can't remember it. I'm going to go through some old notes and share them if they're interesting. I'm going to get my hands back into my dream housing and tear more words and motions and highs and visions from the fabric and sew them together for me and for you. I miss that. I've missed you in this urgent proofing against premature self destruction. We should hang out sometime.



///Elastica - "Connection" This concludes our broadcast day.